


Pas de Deux

by RipplesOfAqua



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dancing, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-27 22:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipplesOfAqua/pseuds/RipplesOfAqua
Summary: “What do you mean you can’t dance?”Josephine scoffs, rounding upon the Inquisition’s commander. Taking two long strides forward along the War Table, she jabs her quill pen against his chest, its touch light but pointed. He gulps, hands rising into a gesture of innocence.“Oh, I can dance, Ser Cullen,” she responds, emphasizing his name as if to remind exactly how much authority he has, of all people, to comment on her ability. “I cannot perform this dance.”Cassandra coughs into her hand, hoping no one notices the laughter prickling at the corners of her eyes.





	Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweettasteofbitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweettasteofbitter/gifts).

“What do you mean you can’t dance?”

Josephine scoffs, rounding upon the Inquisition’s commander. Taking two long strides forward along the War Table, she jabs her quill pen against his chest, its touch light but pointed. He gulps, hands rising into a gesture of innocence.

“Oh, I can dance, _Ser Cullen_,” she responds, emphasizing his name as if to remind exactly how much authority _he _has, of all people, to comment on her ability. “I cannot perform _this _dance.”

Cassandra coughs into her hand, hoping no one notices the laughter prickling at the corners of her eyes.

When not directed at her, Josephine’s righteous indignation is a sight to behold - all fiery, golden light and razor-edged lace. It is usually kept in check by the more polite – and more dangerous – anger she favors for diplomacy. But after two weeks of incessant hounding by the Duke and his men, it is little wonder Josephine is on edge. 

She knows she ought to step in. There is a ball that needs planning, after all. And Leliana, the only sure solution to their current predicament, has been called away on urgent business without any hint to her return.

Maker knows, the rest of them will be of little help.

And Cullen, unfortunately, does not know when to let something drop, Cassandra realizes. She watches as he weighs Josephine’s words, registering that, for once, he is not the only one at a loss when it comes to dancing. His boldness returning, he opens his mouth once more. “But surely as our A—“

“It is a Nevarran dance,” Cassandra interrupts, stepping around the war table to stand at Josephine’s back, “at the height of its fashion many years ago. One would hardly expect the Ambassador to be familiar with it.”

Josephine’s shoulder brushes warm against her arm and Cassandra blinks slowly, only to find two pairs of eyes now staring at her quizzically.

Maker preserve her, must she always speak without thinking?

“_You _are familiar with it, then?” A strong eyebrow rises above piercing hazel-grey eyes, and Cassandra feels her ears grow hot. This is not a part of her past she has ever dreamed of revealing. It is something tender and hidden, never fully healed or examined in the sunlight.

But surely she can trust Josephine.

“Cassandra?”

Josephine voice is warm but hesitant as she reaches out her hand to Cassandra’s wrist. Her heart thuds heavy against her ribcage at the touch and… _dear Andraste_, is that _hope _in the upward curl of Josephine’s lips?

She is sure she will regret this, but she could never refuse Josephine anything. Her traitorous heart has made up its mind, and she is not one to do things by halves.

“I… yes,” she admits, voice thick with an emotion she would rather not identify. “It was still popular when I was a child. My uncle insisted on lessons. It is… something I would not care to repeat. It was horrendous.”

Josephine’s gaze is achingly kind as her hand slides down Cassandra’s wrist to squeeze her palm. But a faint crease of worry appears above her nose, and at that moment Cassandra knows she would do anything to smooth away.

And so she does.

Despite the protestations of every sensible bone in her body that this is a bad idea, the next morning Cassandra finds herself in a quiet room in a far tower of Skyhold. Sunlight filters through the aspens outside, lighting up the windows, which have been cracked ajar to let in the cool autumn breeze. The furniture and an old threadbare rug have been cleared to one side, leaving an open expanse of stone in the center of the room.

And there, by the golden glow of the window, stands Josephine… _Josephine_, _sweet Maker_.

Cassandra swallows as the air flees from her lungs. Heat blooms across her cheeks, and she valiantly loses the battle against the invading blush.

Josephine is absolutely resplendent. It is a rare occasion to see the Inquisition’s Ambassador in something other than her usual diplomatic uniform, and Cassandra treasures each of these moments close to her heart. Now Josephine stands, elegant and regal, wrapped in a flowing silk dress of the deepest cobalt blue. Delicate eddies of red and gold embroidery shimmer in the light, and her arms… her _arms. _Feather-light sleeves caress the ends of Josephine’s shoulders, leaving Cassandra to follow the soft, rounded lines of her bare arms down to her wrists. 

Josephine coughs quietly, the corners of her eyes crinkling as Cassandra shakes herself out of her musings. She looks down at her own attire, a soft, loose-fitting cream shirt and dark lambswool breeches. Perhaps she should have dressed more formally, she thinks, feeling vulnerable without the comforting weight of her armor. She fidgets with the open collar, itching against her exposed neck as her blush continues its conquest across her collarbone. Josephine strides forward, reaching out to catch Cassandra’s hand, stilling her fingers before she can button it any higher.

Her hand is gentle but firm, and oh so warm. And there, faintly scratching against her own palm are the well-worn calluses of a lifelong diplomat, one who does battle with quill and paper.

Cassandra has never held Josephine’s hand before. 

“Don’t look so alarmed,” Josephine teases, her voice kind, “your toes are safe with me.”

“It is not _them _I am worried about,” Cassandra admits, before her mind catches up to her words.

Not her toes, but her _heart. _

Josephine squeezes her hand. “_My _toes, then? I have seen you with your sword, surely you cannot be that bad.”

Cassandra cannot decide whether to protest the other woman’s overestimation of her dancing ability or to ponder the fact that Josephine has watched her training. But then Josephine pulls her away from those thoughts and into the center of the room.

“Come, I believe we begin the dance holding hands, do we not?

Cassandra takes a deep breath and nods. Straightening her spine, she summons her courage and turns their hands so that their palms are pressed together between them. It is strange, calling to mind these steps in reverse from those lessons so long ago, as if through a mirror to a different life. It will take some getting used to, leading, but already a sense of rightness overwhelms her.

“The steps come in threes, the first accented but still smooth. You go back with your left, I forward with my right.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” Josephine says with a smile, and the belief shining in her eyes fills Cassandra with determination.

They take their first step together, hesitant at first with unsteady tempo. But the second is stronger, the third even more. Cassandra counts the measures, her voice echoing loudly across the vaulted ceiling.

She catches Josephine’s eyes, but then drops her gaze to their feet. Cassandra steps away instead of towards. Their fingers tug against each other, and they stumble, falling out of time. But still their clasp remains strong, tethering them together.

They begin the figure again, and as they step across the floor, Cassandra realizes that everything she needs to know can be found in the palm of Josephine’s hand. The subtle tightening of fingers, the slight pulling and pushing against her own, tell her how to move her body with Josephine’s.

Little by little their steps fall into place, their bodies learning how to move as one. Cassandra finishes the set, carefully guiding Josephine into a turn. Cassandra stills them with a touch, and meets Josephine’s eyes. Josephine nods before the question leaves the other woman’s lips, and Cassandra guides Josephine’s hand up to her shoulder. Slowly, she reaches her own hand forward towards Josephine’s hip, as the other woman steps into her touch. Nudging Josephine’s foot with her own, she explains the rest of the dance.

Once more, they begin, the steps coming quicker now. The pattern opens, growing more complex, as the dance pulls them together and then apart. They turn, and step, and cross, but always their hands return together, touching palm to palm, hand to hip. And then, even the distance cannot separate them, for finally, finally they move as one.

After what feels like both a blissful eternity and mere handful of moments, they finish with deep bows, their breath coming heavy. But then as Cassandra begins to straighten, there is a sudden flash of movement. She reaches out, preparing to steady Josephine’s fall when suddenly a pair of strong hands clutch against the collar of her shirt, pulling her forward. Lips press quickly, urgently against her own. But no sooner than Cassandra registers that _Josephine is kissing her_, do the lips retreat, leaving her wide-eyed in their wake.

Josephine bites her lip, a twinkle in her eyes and a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “You are a marvelous teacher, Cassandra. I hope you will join me at the ball?”

Cassandra gapes. “I had… not intended to go,” she admits, emotions spiraling through chest. “There will be… Nevarrans there. Distant cousins...”

Josephine’s smile widens as she taps her finger against Cassandra’s arm. “Pompous nobles,” she declares. “All the more reason why I need a partner who knows what she’s doing… and one who brings genuine joy.” Her gaze meets Cassandra’s own, clear and confident.

She… brings Josephine _joy?_

Well, Cassandra can hardly refuse _that, _can she?

“And perhaps,” Josephine continues, “if you wish, we could continue these lessons? I know an old Antivan folk dance that might suit you.” 

Cassandra bows low once more and, with her heart hammering in her chest, presses a gentle kiss to Josephine’s palm.

“Anything you wish, my lady.”

And for the first time in her life, Cassandra thinks that, just maybe, dancing isn’t so horrible after all. 


End file.
